


Heartache

by Echo (Lyrecho)



Series: Wings of Rebellion [7]
Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Break Up, Gen, Lima Beans AU, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15066101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrecho/pseuds/Echo
Summary: There is nothing Mathilda wouldn't do for Zofia.She would break her own heart. She would swallow her rage.She would turn her back on her vows and swear herself into the service of a princess turned rebel.For Zofia? She would do anything.





	Heartache

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to one piece of the brainchild au that came about because I made a joke post about desaix choking on pecans before canon so all of celicas siblings were alive and threw the entire group chat down an au rabbit hole.
> 
> the au is big, complicated, with many parts worked on by many people (and posted out of chronological order Oh Boy), so i'm just going to say this right now: if you have any questions, please ask them, and check the series page for some general info.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the read!

It's just past dawn when she finds him.

The air is still cold, the sky lit grey, and Clive is sitting hunched over, the very image of a defeated man.

Mathilda pauses in the doorway, unsure, but then she grits her teeth and steps forward. Lays a hand on Clive's shoulder, and peers down at the papers spread over his desk.

Well. _Fernand's_ desk.

She swallows, because this was the last place she had ever expected to find him - he'd avoided the place like the plague since...since his death.

Her gaze flicks over the neat calligraphy marking the pages, and feels. _Something_. A frown flickers to life on her face.

"New marching orders?" She asks, and after a stalled moment, as if his brain has to truly _work_ to process her words, or that she had spoken at all, Clive nods.

Disbelief sparks in her, and she looks back down, hunting, hoping there could be a page she has missed.

There isn't.

Anger comes next, slow and burning. "We've lost over half our men," she says slowly. "We've lost one of our commanders. And still, we're ordered to march?"

Fernand's body won't even be cold in the earth, yet, she thinks, and wants to cry. His little sisters had laid out wreaths of flowers for him, still fresh enough that the buds opened and closed with the light. So fresh, they wouldn't have even begun to wilt.

And while Fernand's death stung the most, burned deep and left a scar, because she had _known_ him, seen his secret smiles when laughing with her over Fernand and the deep sorrow in his gaze, sometimes, when he'd looked between the two of them - seen the adoration for his younger sisters and _known_ he was a good man; a friend. Someone she'd loved, and he was _gone -_ but so were _so many others._ Men and women loved by others like She and Clive had loved Fernand, like his family had. Over a hundred of their men left dead after the end of the last skirmish, infection set in wounds taking those that the fire or axes hadn't first, because the king had refused to send to the temple for clerics to aid them.

(The King was, Mathilda thought secretly, scared of drawing the Mother's ire, lest She dissaprove of his halfhearted warmongering.)

The blow to their numbers and morale was heavy, and yet still - _still_ \- they were offered no reprieve. No aid would come to the loyal soldiers who stood by crown and throne. No peace would come to those who _needed_ the respite. No healers for the wounded.

She was, Mathilda realised, _enraged_.

"He's the King," Clive answers her, and only his tone stops her from snapping at him. It isn't a defense, she can tell. He just sounds...hollow. Numb. Like he can't find anything in himself to make him _care_ anymore. "His orders are... absolute."

Mathilda swallows. She remembers a young Clive, wincing as she stepped on his feet, but still smiling, happy but unsure. _Nervous_. She remembers warm summer days spent together, picnics in the fields of his family's lands, that juvenile snowball fight he'd somehow managed to convince her to take part in that they'd almost, just barely, won.

She remembers his face lighting up when they'd stood in the hall to watch Fernand's knighting, and the freedom in his laughter afterwards, when he'd lunged at the man who would become their best friend, their third part, and knocked him to the ground in a hug that lasted what had felt like forever.

She remembers falling in love with Clive, and wonders when, exactly, it was that she'd fallen out of it.

Or, maybe - the ache in her chest tells her that isn't true, not quite. She still loves Clive, she knows she does -

\- but the man sitting before her now, cold and stiff under her hands, isn't _him_. Clive, she thinks, died when Fernand did - and the ache in her chest is a gaping, yawning grief, that burns and burns and _burns -_

She takes a shaky breath, and bites back tears. "I can't do this anymore," she says, and for the first time since Fernand's death, Clive stops looking down. He looks up at her, and his broken gaze almost makes her breakdown.

"That's treason," he says. He isn't telling her to stay, and that's when the first tears start to fall, because Clive would never try to convince her to go against her own heart.

"I know," she says. "I know."

He blinks. "Where will you go?"

"That - " she falters. "That, I don't know." Shaking, she reaches up her right hand to grip at the delicate silver band pressed onto her ring finger, a latticework symbol of the promise they had made, once upon a time. It feels final, not like a goodbye, but a death, and Mathilda wants to spend a week crying after doing this, after tearing her own heart out and leaving it bleeding on the floor.

She holds the ring out to Clive, unable to speak. He doesn't take it.

"I had that forged for you," he says. "I don't... I don't want it back."

"Clive," she begs. "Clive, I _can't_."

He closes his eyes, like her words cause him pain. "Then sell it," he says, unbearably gentle. "Melt it down, or - Fernand helped me design it. Think of it as a momento of him." His eyes open, and lock onto hers, unfathomably dark. "Throw it away the moment you leave this fort, if you must, just - please, Mathilda...not this. Don't ask this of me."

A shaky nod, and Mathilda pockets the ring. It feels far heavier than it should against her thigh, and she knows - if Clive won't take it back, she'll probably be keeping it forever, even if she locks it away somewhere private, where no one will ever see it again. It was her heart, once, her future, and that isn't something she can just toss aside like it never existed.

"I'm sorry, Clive," she whispers, and takes a step back, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed. What we promised."

But Clive shakes his head. "No, I am the one who is sorry," he says. "I wish you luck, Mathilda. This will all..." he closes his eyes. "This will all be over soon."

"I love you," she promises. "I do. I just - "

"You love Zofia more," Clive interjects, gently. "But...not this Zofia."

"You could - you could come with me," she pleads. "We don't have to fight. We could just... just _run_. Live somewhere, carefree: you and me, together."

"You know that would never work, my love," he says, and the words, too, sound final - the last time she'll ever hear them from his lips, and her breath hitches around a sob she can't hold back. "You'd never be able to live happily knowing the state the kingdom is in, and I..." he trails off, and she knows he is thinking of Fernand. "I _cannot_ fight with the rebels. Not now."

Mathilda nods once, sharp and jerky. "I understand," she says, before he can choke himself anymore on his own grief. "Thank you for doing the same."

"If I hadn't," he says, "Fernand would haunt me until my dying days." There's a longing in his voice that suggests he wouldn't mind that, and Mathilda presses a fist to her chest to kill the pang in her heart.

"I won't tell them you've left," he says. "You'll get written up for desertion, but they won't find out you've gone from me." He stands and hesitates, like he's not quite sure what to do.

Eventually he reaches out, and gently cups her face. Mathilda thinks for a second that he'll kiss her, and braces her heart for this final, true farewell - but he just tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and that might just be worse.

"Have a good life, Mathilda," he whispers. "Be happy."

"I will," she whispers back, resting her forehead to his for just a second and blinking her eyes free of tears. "I promise."

* * *

When she had said she didn't know where she was going, it had been true, in the most technical, general sense. She had no idea of what she was going to do with herself now - no plans, no clear cut, concrete future.

She did, however, have a _destination_ in mind.

The issue with the Rebellion had never really been that they didn't know where they were holing up - because they did, and had for quite some months. The _issue_ had been that they just didn't have the _manpower_ to do anything about it, not when they were running themselves ragged fighting a war on two fronts: against the rebel forces, and against the lowlife thieves and bandits taking advantage of a kingdom and people split by civil war.

And for that, for all the losses Zofia has faced, that she, _personally,_ has faced - while she is mad at King Lima, _furious_...there's a burning in her gut, stoking up rage for the princess who leads the other half of this crusade, and even if walking into her fortress is suicide, even if walking in there _just to give her a piece of her mind_ leads to her execution -

\- it will be worth it. Because Mathilda has not left her home, her love, and her knighthood behind in order to bow to her pride.

This is, all of it, for the sake of Zofia. And she needs to make _sure_ that Princess Octavia knows that, because right now, her actions are just as harmful as her father's to the common folk trying to avoid the war, however inadvertently. Ignorance isn't an excuse, and Mathilda cannot, _will not_ , allow Zofia's throne to be handed over to someone who is simply "the lesser of two evils."

Zofia deserves more than that, and if giving that fate to her beloved kingdom involves a sacrilegious culling, then Mathilda will bend her knee to her goddess and face her absolution in hell.

And it's with that thought in mind that she steps forward, out of the shadows of the trees she's been hiding in, and strides boldly forwards, making no effort to hide her presence.

Still, the guards dressed in red - a signature of the rebellion, flying the colours of Rigel for reasons that have always escaped Mathilda - don't seem to notice her until she calls out to them. They jump, startled, as if they hadn't expected anyone to ever show up here, even thought she presumes that's the entire reason they're stationed out here in the first place -

\- young, she thinks, and something bitter twists her lips. Young, and undertrained, and inexperienced.

There's no greater crime than war, she knows, just as she knows that the only thing that will kill a country and it's people quicker than a war is a _civil_ war, and it's always the innocent who suffer.

"I'm here to speak with High Princess Octavia," she says, careful to keep her tone even. Not threatening - but not meek, either. She isn't here to offer any terms of surrender, her own or the King's, and it wouldn't do to give that impression. "You will let her know I am here at once."

It isn't a request.

One of the pair before her swallows, and glances to his comrade like they might hold the answers he's begging for. It's almost hard to keep a straight face, for a second - Mathilda knows a cadet blanking on protocol when she sees one, and for a moment it's too easy to forget this is a real child at real war, not a squire grumbling about being put on stable duty.

"We don't - we don't really have a way to do that?" One says. "I mean. It's not like _we_ talk to the _princess_."

"Then you will find someone who does," she says mildly, smiling. "And you will tell them to come to me, so they can let me in."

She thinks she hears the both of them swallow. Her smile widens.

"I'm waiting," she says.

They glance at each other, one final time, before the one that had spoken to her runs for the fortress.

"He'll, uh - he'll be back, soon," the other one reassures her. " _I hope_ ," she hears him whisper, and has to bite back a laugh.

The ability to terrify children is maybe not something she should be proud of, or pleased with, but it's a momentary reprieve from the grief burning through her heart, so she allows herself to smile.

This, she thinks, she needs.

-x-

Her wait is shorter than she had expected - if one of the rebellion had walked up to _their_ fortress, they would have left them to stew out in the cold just long enough to make them paranoid. As it is, she's been outside for such a short time that _that_ is enough to make her paranoid, and she wishes she could tell from the stoic expression on the man marching out to see her if that's planned, or accidental.

And then she recognises the man, and she has to raise an incredulous eyebrow.

 _Prince Arcturus_ , she thinks. He doesn't fight, not from the intel they have - but he _does_ kill, a man of the cloth wrapped in espionage. There had been several reports that crossed her desk that she had passed on to Clive, that he had forced onto Fernand, that he had gone through, because he was "a responsible member of society, unlike the two of _you_ ," that had contained nothing but long winded complaints from the old men in the House of Peers, stating how sacrilegious it was for a bishop to stoop to poison, how low for a prince.

Mathilda, quite frankly, hadn't given a damn, and she was pretty sure Mother Mila didn't either, but who was she to argue with the logic of the House?

Regardless of whether or not the Mother holds any favour in her heart for him, Mathilda is immediately on edge. Divine providence or no, poisons are something her spear can't fight against, and her heartbeat stutters at the thought that he's coming here not to talk, first, but just simply kill her - because that is proof that Zofia cannot be entrusted into the hands of Lima's children any more than it can be trusted in his.

Her grip on her lance tightens, and she prepares to move in a fleeting heartbeats notice. He'll die before she does, if it comes down to it.

"Milady," he greets mildly, stopping a few feet away from her - still inside the fortress gates, just far enough away that if she decided to lunge, he'd get plenty of forewarning. He doesn't say her name, and Mathilda wonders if that's because he's trying to be polite, trying to slight her, or just simply doesn't know it. It doesn't matter either way, she supposes, and bows her head in acknowledgement; low enough to be respectful, shallow enough that it's clear she offers no fealty.

"Prince Arcturus," she says, and picks up on his faint wince with amusement. Intel says that his siblings call him 'Arc,' and his full name is, she supposes, a bit of a mouthful. "I'm here to parley."

He stares at her, his disbelief clear. "On behalf of the Zofian army?" He says, and his words drip with derision.

"No," Mathilda says, and shakes her head. "On behalf of myself."

His considering stare is weighty, and it's only years of strict discipline that keep her from fidgeting.

"Well," Arcturus says, like he isn't quite sure what to make of her. "You're far from the first turncoat we've had darken our doorstep, though you may lay claim to the dubious honour of being our first _highborn_ turncoat." His lip curls up in a faint disgust that has her tensing once more, in case it's directed _at_ her. He blinks at her, and continues, "what do you wish to parley with, milady?"

"Not what," she corrects, and draws herself up straight. " _Whom_. Respectfully, your highness, I am here to speak with your sister - _not_ you."

His eyes darken, briefly, and Mathilda is very, very aware that he would be an incredibly dangerous man to make an enemy of - she is, truly, in no position to be making demands.

But neither can she give ground, and it's quite amazing, the strength of character a good bluff can present. If she can impress him with her moxie, that's her foot half in the door already.

"Well," he says. "I'll be happy to take you to the war room, so long as you leave your lance behind."

Mathilda nods - it's easy enough to agree when this is nothing she wasn't already expecting; when she still has knives sewn into the soles of her boots, Clair's idea and Clive's request: "Just in case you ever get in a situation where you're searched for weapons, and the find the hidden ones as _well_ as the obvious ones." She has enough knives on her to arm an entire royal kitchen, and even if they _do_ find the ones secured in her boots - she has her hands. Rumour puts the High Princess as a woman taller than her, likely stronger than her, and probably walking into this meeting well armoured and well armed - but Mathilda has grit and determination on her side; when it comes to Zofia's future, when _that much_ is at stake -

\- well. She can't lose. And so, if it comes down to it, she _won't_.

Quietly, she's hoping it doesn't come down to it. She's tired, and her heart hurts, and even for Zofia, she's not sure she'll be able to stay standing much longer. It's just...it's just been that type of _year_.

She's wallowing, a little, and she knows it, so as they stop at a door that Arcturus gestures for her to go through - their destination, and he clearly doesn't want her at his back - she takes a deep breath to settle her nerves, centre her thoughts. That they haven't searched her for any weapons beyond her freely surrendered lance is strange, she thinks, but doesn't question it, and the presence of her hidden steel tucked away all over her clothes is a cold, comforting presence as she steps inside, and immediately locks gazes with the Red Seraph.

"Your Highness," she greets, not daring to say her name like she had the prince's. To balance out the respect, she makes no effort to bow at all - she isn't comfortable with even the _idea_ of taking her eyes off of the predator sitting across from her, red eyes and hair almost black in the low burning candlelight of the room. "I am Mathilda, of the Knights of Zofia." She offers no family name or title, simply addresses herself as who she is, entering this room: a knight in the service of her kingdom.

"Dame Mathilda, then," the princess says. "What brings you here?"

"A question, your highness," she says, and hesitates, even as she's gestured to continue. The words burn in her throat, because there are so many they need to say, but spewing forth the venom her grief has bled forth will not help anyone, especially not her, with the princess before her, axe across her lap, and the prince behind her, eyes burning into her neck. "I would like to know what your intentions are, regarding the throne."

The princess blinks. "Well," she says. "I plan to...take it..?" She sends a baffled look over Mathilda's shoulder, likely at her brother, as if questioning why she needed such an obvious answer to be stated aloud.

"Well," she continues on, " _when?_ "

Once more, the princess blinks. "The moment I can," she says, in what Mathilda can only guess is complete honestly, and she has to snap her teeth shut for a second to bite back a growl of frustration.

"Then what you need to do," she says slowly, "is find a way to fight a viable high war, because your insistent low war is _killing Zofia_." That was, in the end, the biggest issue, really: one side was armed and ready for the battlefield - the other, the waiting game.

And in the meanwhile, the people suffered. _Civilians_ suffered.

The kingdom suffered, because the rebellion playing it cautious to survive against the sheer numbers of the army meant that taxes were still raised high to maintain weaponry, families were still separated, crops were commandeered to feed troops.

Seeing her now, Mathilda didn't think that the Princess Octavia was cruel, or even ignorant of the suffering she was helping to cause, because her eyes pinched at Mathilda's words, mouth twisting uncomfortably, like a knife had slid home.

"What you need to do," she says, "Is make it clear the throne is already yours. Right now, you're fighting to dethrone your father - but I can assure you, in the eyes of his people, he may as well already be _dead_." She takes a deep breath. "But neither can the people place their trust in you, so long as you hide away in shadows, the chaos your war causes keeping the knights and soldiers pulled away from the towns that need their protection against bandits." She looks Octavia directly in the eye, and prays to Mila that her words are getting through to her _somehow_. "In a war like this, if you want to win, you have to risk everything. You might lose it, sure. But if you continue down the path you're on now?" She pauses, deliberate, and takes a step forward to lean down across the table, bringing her face right up to the princess's. "Then you _definitely will_."

Octavia swallows, she registers, and leans back, satisfied that her words have shaken _something_ within the rebel princess.

"I see," she says, and though her tone is even, Mathilda swears she can hear a slight wobble hidden _somewhere_ in her voice -

"Octavia?" The voice is low, and heavy with sleep. "Are you coming back to bed?"

Mathilda turns, to see a woman with nothing but a sheet draped around her leaning against the doorway, yawning and staring blearily at the princess behind her.

"I woke up and you were gone," she says, and the prince has the sort of carefully blank expression on his face that tells Mathilda he is probably all too used to this.

 _Well_ , she thinks, and can't help it - she shoots the princess a look of judgement; purely teasing, of course, but she doesn't need to know that.

"Dame Mathilda," she says, and it's impressive, how much dignity she can gather with a naked woman draping herself over her. "I thank you for your council. I'll...I'll take it under advisement,"

Mathilda nods, just once. It's quite honestly the most she could ask for, realistically.

"I'll show you to a place you can rest," Arcturus speaks up from behind her. "You must be exhausted."

"It isn't a cell, is it?" She asks, only half joking, as he laughs.

"No, though you might wish it was, later," he says. "We don't really have the space for private rooms and I'm sure you're used to having your own." He eyes her custom armour as he leads her out into the hall, and closes the door gently behind them.

"You're not wrong," she says ruefully, thinking of the private chamber gifted to her upon her promotion. "But I was a squire long before I was ever a knight, and a big sister before even that. I'm well used to sharing my space with others."

"You'll get along fine here, then," he says. "I look forward to working with you, Dame Mathilda."

Mathilda blinks, once, at the bittersweet deja vu those words spark in her. "And I you," she replies, and locks her grief away in her heart.

There will be time for all that, later.

For now, she is at war.

 


End file.
